


(God I’m so crazy, baby) I need you to come here and save me

by birdsofthesoul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Sex, Bitterness, Demon Dean Winchester, F/M, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining Castiel (Supernatural), Resentment, Season/Series 10, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, what is demonhood but a second adolescence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-07-30 13:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20097775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofthesoul/pseuds/birdsofthesoul
Summary: Dean attends a dung beetle party, sets three dumpsters on fire, and cements his reputation as a C minus lay.Castiel is never far behind.Or: the summer Dean spent sleeping with Crowley, moping over Sam, and trashing Cas's self-esteem.Alternatively: the summer Cas spent honing his skills as a Nice Guy™.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean wakes up mean.

If he’s being _completely_ honest here, he wakes up kind of drunk too, because there’s no other explanation why he’d agree to run away with _Crowley_ of all people.

But Crowley’s there, you know. Present. He’s standing at the foot of Dean’s bed like some kind of lovelorn Romeo and he’s about to make some grand gesture to Dean’s dead body, and Dean’s _always _been a sucker for that kind of shit. Like, why else would he watch telenovelas? And it’s not like it’s a _great _speech or anything, but then he talks about howling at the moon, and how is Dean supposed to resist that?

So.

They _have _to go. It’s not a choice, okay, it’s a goddamned necessity, because if Dean doesn’t get to _scream_ about what a fucking waste the last thirty-five years of his life have been, there _will _be bloodshed and he doesn’t want to do that just yet.

He has black eyes and all, but he’s not _that _mean. He's working his way up to that.

“You need to leave a note,” Crowley’s saying.

“_What?_”

“That’s the proper thing to do in these kinds of cases.”

And that’s the _dumbest _thing Dean’s ever heard, because how is there even a proper thing to do when no corpse in the history of mankind has ever gotten up with the presence of mind and the dexterity to write a note? How would that even work?

“Dean,” Crowley says way too seriously, “when you elope with someone right after you die, _you always leave a note._”

Christ.

_Of course _Crowley would sympathize with Ted Mosby. That’s Dean’s luck right there — stuck with a wet blanket in life and after death.

“Fine,” he says, and he scribbles a note to Sam. “_Happy_?”

“Over the moon,” Crowley says, and then he smiles kind of viciously. “This is just so deliciously _mean._”

And yeah, that’s kind of the _point_, or why else would Dean even _bother_?

Dean’s cursed to be saddled with _idiots_.

What happens next is clearly Crowley’s fault, because if he didn’t bug Dean into writing a note, or if he made his monologue like a few sentences _shorter_, then they wouldn’t have stumbled out the bunker door and _straight into Cas_.

Sure, bad luck clings to Dean like a skunk’s fart, but he’s already died and woken up a demon in the last twenty-four hours, even the universe would know that it’s time to cut him some slack.

So if Crowley had balls, he’d grab this situation by _its _balls and maybe things won’t end with Dean ganking someone to get the hell out of this mausoleum, but it’s Crowley, and the guy’s just such a _pussy_, all right? Who takes Hell and turns it into the DMV?

_Crowley_.

So Dean has _no _expectations, because he’s smart, and he doesn’t even wait for Crowley to make his move.

Cas is still gaping and gasping and spluttering something that sounds like _you’re alive _and Dean just asks, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

And then he grabs the angel by the lapels of his stupid coat and goes for broke.

Cas’s lips are chapped and his breath is honestly kind of terrible, but _none of this matters_, because Dean’s not really trying to kiss him. This is a distraction technique, because Dean has _eyes _and he knows the poor bastard has been pining over him ever since he laid a hand on him in Hell, and.

Well.

Things have come full circle now, and Dean might be a demon now, but he still has it in him to be _somewhat _kind, and this is probably the closest the poor guy’s ever going to get to living out his fantasies, and it’s not like Dean’s obligated to help him or anything, since objectively speaking, Cas is kind of an asshole, but Dean’s an asshole too, so he’s not going to _judge, _and when it really comes down to it, Dean’s a generous guy.

So he really goes for it, and he can kind of feel Cas flailing, and then he lets go and just _dives _into the Impala. It’s off to the races for them, and if he’s being _honest_, Dean needed to be there like _weeks _ago.

But this clearly isn’t something he can expect a nerdy guy like Cas to understand. The dude wears his trench coat like a security blanket — he’s like Linus and Charlie Brown all rolled into one, and fine, maybe Dean is kind of like Lucy, but after all the shit he’s been through, he deserves to be a bitch.

What he doesn’t deserve is Cas _flinging _himself onto the car’s hood, and like, who _even _does that? Sure, Dean’s reasonably fond of grand gestures and all that, but this is coming _years _late, and Dean just doesn’t have the time and energy for this shit, all right?

Getting resurrected is just _draining_.

“_Where _are you going?” Cas is blabbing, or that’s what Dean thinks he’s saying. He’s making some horrified expression when he catches sight of Crowley in the passenger seat, and Dean doesn’t even need to hear him to know that he’s screeching, “Is that _Crowley_?”

It’s _cute _that he thinks he’s going to get an answer when Dean’s already in the Impala.

Dean can’t believe that _this _is the military genius who singlehandedly upended Heaven.

_No wonder _Chuck left.

He revs the engine experimentally, and when Cas kind of does this little jump, he just revs it again, and then he kind of steps on the gas. Just a little, because like he said, he’s really trying so that this doesn’t end with an excess of bodily fluids, and God, why can’t anyone give him a break?

Cas falls on his ass, and Dean doesn’t waste any time laughing. He just _stomps _on the gas, and once they’re tearing off, he sticks his head out the window and yells, “Hey Cas! Catch you later!”

Yeah. Total asshole behavior. But if Cas ever bothered to actually _watch _the shows Dean’s been pushing his way for _years _now, he’d know that what Dean really means is _see you never_.

Because why would he ever want to do _that_?

*

Of course, Cas probably slapped some sort of angelic tracking device on him during their little altercation.

Dean has _no idea _how the guy’s even tracking them, but damn if he isn’t chasing them through the backroads of America. He should probably be flattered, but truth be told, Dean just doesn’t care anymore.

It’s not like Crowley’s great or anything, but Crowley doesn’t have _expectations_, so even if he’s the worst, he’s really the _best_.

*

Sam and Cas, on the other hand, are the _worst_.

*

Sam keeps calling. For a guy who keeps yapping on and on about boundaries, he has absolutely _none_, and if this were anyone else, Dean would totally say that his mother didn’t raise him right, but since _Dean’s_ the poor schmuck who raised this ingrate, he’s not about to shoot himself in the foot, so.

Like, what is there to even say?

Dean left a _note_, for crying out loud.

*

This just really goes to show that Crowley has no idea what he’s talking about, and it would be better for _everyone _if he would leave the thinking to Dean.

*

So as it turns out, Dean’s the life of the party. This comes as a surprise to exactly no one, but it’s not like Dean’s ever really had a chance reap the rewards of being prom king, which he would have totally nabbed if he’d ever stayed at a place long enough, or if he wasn’t busy chauffeuring Sam to his lame, middle-school get-togethers.

So yeah, that’s another mark in the “how Sam ruined Dean’s life” column, but, like, what’s new?

The old Dean was a pathetic, soft thing, beholden to his stomach and the other indignities that are part and parcel of being human, but now that he’s no longer on the prowl for shrimp skewers or mini cheeseburgers or whatever appetizer the host’s come up with on the fly, he can actually work the crowd.

And the crowd fucking _loves _him.

He’s _Batman_, okay? He’s _better _than Batman, because Wayne still needs _technology_ to do shit, but Dean can just jump from roof to roof like it’s nothing. Hell, he’s leaped over the balconies and landed three floors down before without breaking a sweat. And he’s down for _anything_. Human bull rides? _Fuck _yeah, and if they turn into a cage fight mid-ride, he’s not averse to breaking a few ribs. He’ll take his chances on a three-hundred-pound motherfucker any time of the day, because he’s just that _badass_.

But the party scene’s getting old real quick. It’s just people fucking, people crying, people getting wasted, people getting puke in their hair, and it’s so fucking _lame_. Some of the houses don’t even have a decent karaoke machine, and it’s just _criminal_ to deprive the world of Dean’s voice.

Dean’s a _rock star_.

Which is why they’re in LA, because how else is he supposed to showcase his goddamn talent, but Crowley just _sucks _as his interim agent, and God, it’s like he’s looking to get fired or something, because he never brings Dean to the cool parties where people still have a sliver of clarity to actually _appreciate _Dean’s charm.

Instead, the fucker just goes, “Squirrel, you know that friend of mine who works in a tiny attic in the warehouse he owns?”

Dean _does_, because Crowley has the weirdest friends, and Dean’s a _collector _of weird people, okay? That’s why he hung out with a socially awkward Constantine wannabe for the better part of a decade, and Crowley _knows _this, he just _knows _that Dean’s not gonna be able to turn down an invitation to anything hosted by an eighty year old beetle dung fortuneteller.

So he says, “Yeah, what about him?”

And that’s how he finds himself sitting in the ugliest couch he’s ever seen, doing his best to get shitfaced in a closet the size of Michael Scott’s Paper Company, and _Christ_, didn’t anyone tell the man that dung beetles and appetizers don’t mix? Dean doesn’t even _eat _anymore and he’s _still _disgusted when he sees a beetle munching on a Cheeto.

He’s sitting perfectly still, sandwiched between Crowley and the beetle dung enthusiast, watching two beetles perform interpretative dance around a French fry, when he has the revelation that he doesn’t _really _care if he never gets invited to a dung beetle party again.

“Tommy,” he says to his favorite geriatric, “Tommy, man, this party kind of blows, all right? Is there anything_ fun_ you’ve got going on, or are we just going to wait for these beetles to take a dump so you can tell my fortune?”

“Dean,” Crowley’s hissing, all scandalized, and all right, when he puts his mind to it he can pull off a pretty convincing bitch face, and if Dean took his bet he’d be out ten bucks now, but if Crowley thinks Dean actually _cares _about making a good impression so that the old man will take whatever deal Crowley’s trying to shove down his throat, then he doesn’t know Dean _at all_.

And Dean’s _done _with people who don’t know him. Been there, done that, and the whole thing was a zero out of ten, definitely would _not _recommend.

But Tommy’s been around for a while, and he _knows _people, so he kinda knows Dean too, and he just jerks his head towards the staircase and says, “The kids are in the basement. They’re usually up to no good.”

Well then. Dean’s gotta join the club.

Except there is no club. By the time he’s meandered downstairs the party’s in full swing, which really just means there’s a gaggle of twenty-somethings giggling in a corner, and he just _feels _in his bones that this is the last party he’s gonna grace his presence with for a while.

One of the kids detaches himself from the group and stumbles over, punch drunk, and Dean has to kind of push the kid away, keep him at arm’s length, and the dude just kind of drapes himself over Dean’s shoulder anyway, and just as Dean’s wondering if he should punch the kid’s lights out, he slurs, “Hey, you’re new.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “But this is really kind of shaping up into a one-time thing.”

“You should join us,” the kid decides. “Like, we’re just pregaming right now, so everything sucks_ donkey’s balls_, but afterwards we’re heading out to blow shit up. Wanna come? It’s gonna be _wild_.”

Dean can get behind wild. Anytime someone says, _hey, this is gonna be wild_, Dean guarantees that he can be even _wilder_. That’s, like, one of his few marketable skills.

So he joins this merry band of morons and troops out to the dirt road, and okay, he drove all the way over here so he knows there’s _nothing_ worth a second look out there, but that’s just typical Dean Winchester, always getting his hopes up for nothing, and he’s not _disappointed_ or anything when it turns out that the road just kind of peters out into a row of empty dumpsters, because that’s how these things _always _go, but still.

He’s reached the point where anyone sane would just _leave_, but it’s like he wants to be disappointed by the world, so he stays. In truth, he just likes going whole hog when it comes to fucking himself over. There’s something to be said for snatching the other shoe out of the air before it drops.

“My dude,” the kid who invited him out says, “have you ever seen a real dumpster fire before?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “it’s called _my life_.”

The dozen of kids or so howl their approval, and Christ, this is as juvenile as Dean’s life has ever gotten, and then like this isn’t embarrassing _enough_, the kid sidles over and says, “Wanna help us start a _literal_ dumpster fire?”

Dean gets a real good whiff of the alcohol on his breath, and if he still believed in responsibility and all that shit, he’d probably send these boys packing, but instead, he just takes a seat and watches these numbnuts lob explosives into the dumpsters like they think they’re Lebron James, except vertically challenged, and the point is, he doesn’t _babysit _overgrown men anymore. Period. That’s what got him into this mess in the first place, and _honestly_, the only people who make a habit out of watching _actual _dumpster fires burn have _flaming _dumpster fires for lives, and isn’t that just the saddest commentary on Dean’s life _ever_.

His phone makes a sad little buzz and somehow he manages to hear it, even over the racket, and this is pure reflex talking, really, because he doesn’t care about texts anymore, but he grabs it and sees Sam’s message before he can delete it.

_come home_

Bold of Sam to assume that he still calls that ugly mausoleum home.

He deletes it, but another text comes through before he can pocket his phone.

_please_

_I didn’t mean what I said_

Dean almost tosses his phone into the fire after reading that last text, because it’s like Sam thinks he’s out here, pining away for their lost brotherhood or something equally stupid, when all Dean’s really trying to do is live his best life _away _from Sam and his toxic negativity.

Fucking narcissists and their need to make _everything _about them.

He almost texts back something vicious, except that would be giving in to Sam, because if there’s one thing Dean knows about Sam, it’s that the little fucker _thrives _off of attention.

His phone vibrates again.

_I’m sorry too_

Apology rejected. Dean deletes that text too with extreme prejudice.

There’s screaming coming from the dumpsters, probably one of the idiots who burned himself after he got too close to the fire, and _Jesus_, they can’t really expect him to come and save their sorry asses, can they? They’ve already made him participate in an avant-garde depiction of his life and making any more demands is just plain _rude_.

His phone is still buzzing insistently like Sam’s whining, and Dean just does not have time for this shit, so he wanders back to the building to see if Crowley’s ready to bounce, but Crowley’s kind of just steadfastly ignoring him.

Well, fuck Crowley’s shit.

So he’s grabbed his jacket and he’s planning on driving to the nearest bar and banging the next chick he sees when he bumps into Stella. Stella’s maybe a six, a seven on a good night, and this _clearly_ isn’t one of her better nights, but then she taps him on the shoulder and asks, “Hey, have you seen Justin? Reddish blond curls, kind of skinny, goes around calling everyone ‘my dude,’ and probably totally wasted?”

Stella has a worn kind of prettiness that really shines through when she’s tired and on edge, and that’s exactly what she is right now. Dean doesn’t need to be a psychic to figure out that one of the idiots responsible for the burning dumpsters has let her down _yet _again, and since her boyfriend has caused her distress and he’s also caused _Dean _distress, Dean figures they’re both due a little compensation.

“Depends,” Dean says. “What’s in it for me?”

“Uh,” she says, kind of taken aback but not really, “you get to help me murder him?”

“He’s already doing a pretty good job himself,” Dean says. “Turns out lobbing a firework into a dumpster and then leaning over to check isn’t great for your health.”

“Jesus,” Stella exhales. “How did I end up with such a loser.”

But she doesn’t make a move to go rescue her boyfriend from his own stupidity, and Dean’s not exactly in a position to be handing out moral judgments, but man, he had her pegged as a stone-cold bitch the moment he laid eyes on her, so this has been a ridiculously validating night.

“It’s not too late to upgrade,” he offers. “Wanna rip his heart out back at your place?”

Stella’s just mad enough to let him do her in one of the empty rooms, and just crazy enough to leave the door wide open. It’s like she _wants _someone to walk in on them, because she’s even brought shitty Walmart speakers, and who the hell actually brings their own soundtrack to a revenge hook-up?

_Stella _does. She has Lana del Rey pumping through the basement, and Dean would object purely on principle, but then she turns to him and says, “Dean. I want to make a _scene_.”

Well, damn, Dean’s been wanting to make a scene since _2006_.

He figures that he can score them a two-for-one kind of a deal, and he’s serious enough about it that he even tolerates her godawful music taste, even though the woman sounds like a deranged sex robot crooning through the tinny speakers.

“Shut up,” Stella says, except she says it in a way that sounds like she secretly agrees with Dean. “_Diet Mountain Dew _is a classic, everybody knows that.”

“She’s so _self-absorbed_. I don’t see why people actually _pay _to hear her wallow.”

“Um, because we, too, are self-absorbed?” Stella gives him a one-shouldered shrug and her blouse slides all the way down her arm. “There are worse things to be, you know.”

“Like what?”

“A C minus lay.”

And. It’s not like Dean _wallows_ or anything, but Lisa said that he was a C-minus lay with ten miles of daddy issues, and that’s the kind of thing that _stays _with a guy, all right? He’s not _Sam_ and he doesn’t have the super annoying habit of making everything about him all the fucking time, so yeah, he’s going to say that Stella’s insinuating unkind things about her loser of a boyfriend, and it makes _sense_, all right, because any guy who organizes a dumpster fire to perv on undergrads is probably a basement dweller, and _everyone _knows that automatically translates to a F minus lay.

So really, Stella’s probably being real _generous_ in her assessment of Justin.

God, Dean doesn’t even know the guy yet and he wants to punch him in the teeth.

It’s practically his civic duty to show her a great time.

So he spreads her out on the ping pong table, and yeah, it’s kind of trashy, but they’re in the basement of a dung beetle whisperer, so trashy is practically a given. He knows he makes it good — he doesn’t even take out his dick, just goes down on her without a single word, and she lets out a sudden, long moan.

Dean definitely makes it good.

But then Stella goes and makes it _real_. She doesn’t really make a sound after the initial moan, just kind of sighs and falls silent, but her breath keeps hitching in short, surprised gasps, and then she covers her eyes with her arm, and that bit of vulnerability — it stops him in his tracks, and he’s too surprised to continue.

“Dean?” Stella gasps, and then she removes her arm and blinks up at him. “What are you waiting for?”

He doesn’t _want _to be a C minus lay, so he gets back to work, but that’s pretty much it for him — work. The arousal drained out of him as soon as she dropped the brazen hussy act, but he brings her off anyway, and then just he stands there in the V of her legs, one of her legs draped over his shoulder and the other dangling from the table, and waits for her to come down from her post-orgasmic high.

Stella comes to with a small sigh, and she’s definitely crazy because she doesn’t make a move to get off the table. She doesn’t even shift her leg from Dean’s shoulder. “Dean,” she asks, and she has the gall to sound annoyed, “_aren’t you going to fuck me?_”

“No,” Dean says, “you just reminded me of my _ex_. That’s an instant boner killer, okay?”

And this chick _still_ doesn’t get up. She’s lying naked on a dirty ping pong table, listening to the worst pillow talk in the history of mankind, and all she’s doing is _surveying_ him, almost incuriously, except then she says, “Did you zone out in the middle of fucking her?”

“She did say that I was a C minus lay,” Dean says. “I thought I was at least an A minus, but I _was _fucked up about my brother at the time, so.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“_Himself_. God, he’s like your boy-toy. Justin.”

“Yeah? Tall, dumb, selfish?”

“_Exactly_. Like, he’d _dance _like a monkey for his frat brothers, right, but anytime _I _asked him to do anything, he’d moan and whine and drag his feet like a little _bitch_. I fucking raised that little shithead and all I wanted him to do was to stay _clean _and actually _live_, and that’s fucking basic, all right. Like, this is baseline stuff. And he fucks that up too, and when I drag him back to, like, _humanity_, kicking and screaming, all I get is _more _kicking and screaming. He’s managed to fuck up every single hookup and relationship I’ve ever had, and he’s still _succeeding_.”

He kind of has to cut himself at the end, because this is just fucking beneath him. He has the Mark and he has his groove back, and this is the lean, mean Dean now, no more sob stories about Sam and Cas and Dad, except he’s just kind of poured what’s left of _his _humanity out here for this tiny slip of a thing to hear, and he’s supposed to be _cooler _than this.

But Stella just gives him a knowing look like she understands, and that's bullshit right there, because how can she possibly understand? The look itself is enough to enrage him, so he adds, “Look, I don’t usually _do _this all right? I don’t fuck and whine, and I don’t condone _cheating_, which is kind of what you’re doing over here, and if Justin didn’t blow so hard that I felt it my _civic duty _to teach you that there’s plenty of fuckboys in the sea, I wouldn’t even be standing here right now.”

Stella’s supposed to get mad, but by now Dean’s kind of resigned himself to the notion that Stella just doesn’t do what she’s _supposed _to do. She’s _quirky_, which is just another word for _batshit crazy_, and considering she has a boyfriend who gets off on setting _trash_ on fire, he’s probably an idiot for actually expecting her to react in a _normal _way, and sure enough, she just kind of shrugs, awkwardly because she’s _still _lying flat in front of him, gazing at him from under half closed eyes, and then she goes, “The only reason I’m _still _with Justin — and that’s a big if, by the way, since I don’t date losers that blow up trash cans — but yeah, the only reason I’m still with him is because he’s low maintenance, okay? Yeah, I’m fucked up over family too, and I figured that I needed a guy that could kind of make do with only seventy percent of my attention? And let’s be _real_, seventy percent of my attention is _definitely_ worth more than a hundred percent of your garden-variety bimbo’s attention, but most guys don’t understand this.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, kind of intrigued by this theory despite himself, because that’s probably the _only _reason he’s put up with Cas for all these years. “Like, Justin does?”

“Justin _totally _does,” Stella says, and clearly she doesn’t know her man _at all_, because Justin barges in right then, just as Lizzy Grant starts wailing about shameless faces in Cipriani’s basement, and God, who _is _Cipriani, is he like some mobster who just strings people up in his house or something, and Justin just starts _wailing _right along with her.

Somewhere between the _how could you_s and the _you blew up a DUMPSTER you have no right to talk to me_s, Cas shows up, looking both righteous and furious and disappointed, and then he just points at Justin’s singed hair and totally _ruined _jacket and demands, “How could you leave him alone like this? He got _third-degree _burns, Dean, I had to _heal _him,” and oh, really, _now’s _the time Cas decides to heal random hobos on the street?

He couldn’t be assed to try and heal Sam when the dude was trying to shut the gates of Hell, and Dean’s never seen him ever give the whole miracles thing a spin, which was why _Metatron _actually had a shot at displacing him, so really, Cas needs to get over himself, because Dean _knows _just exactly what he’s made of.

“Dean,” Cas insists, “you’re _better _than this.”

“Oh my God,” Stella shrieks, “just go and fuck a cactus, what’s _wrong _with you, I can’t believe I _ever _went out with you.”

Justin just makes pterodactyl noises.

“Yeah,” Dean says finally, “what she said. If you need dick this badly, go fuck yourself with a cactus. I hear Arizona’s great this time of year. Just leave me alone.”

He pushes past Cas, knocks him aside and heads up the stairs.

The party’s almost over and apparently Crowley bounced a while ago. Tommy’s bent over a tank, inspecting his kingdom of beetles.

“Dean,” he says, straightening up, “you know how beetles are very similar to humans?”

“Uh, they are?”

“Oh, definitely. You see how I’ve put them in a sandpit?”

Dean’s not a beetle expert or anything, but he’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to keep dung beetles in a sand box. “Are you supposed to do that?”

“Probably not,” Tommy concedes. “But I see the sand as a metaphor for the highs and lows of life.”

Like, what the fuck.

“It’s going to be okay, Dean,” Tommy says. “Everything’s going to be okay. In the end.”

*

Crowley’s waiting for him back in their hotel room, and he’s not exactly drunk, because the King of Hell has to have a decent tolerance, but he’s kind of quiet and Crowley’s a ranter.

Dean stands in the doorframe, watches Crowley nurse his Scotch by the window.

“Did you have fun?” Crowley asks at last.

“I didn’t get off, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That wasn’t what I was asking,” Crowley says, but he turns to actually look at Dean. “But since you brought it up, what, exactly, made you limp?”

“Nothing,” Dean says. “Her _music_. She had this thing about a mobster called Cipriani.”

“Mobster?” Crowley asks.

“Yeah. Apparently he has this basement.”

“It’s a restaurant, you prick.”

“A restaurant?” Dean says, stripping down to his boxers. “You don’t say.”

“We should go there next time we’re in New York,” Crowley says, heading towards Dean. “I told you that I’d make this fun for you.”

Crowley takes a seat on _Dean’s_ bed, and Dean would be mad, but then he pats the spot next to him, and_._

Dean doesn’t do this anymore, not for free, but hey, if _Crowley_’_s_ gonna do the work.

Dean tosses his boxers onto the ground and lies down on the bed, lets Crowley get above him. Crowley’s not _half-bad_, but he’s not exactly _great _either, because Dean’s still _thinking_, and who wants to do that? He can even _hear _his phone go off, and he grabs it so that Crowley gets the hint that he needs to do _better_, but then he sees the name on the text notifications, and Christ.

Cas is a tenacious bastard.

_I know you’re not happy_, the first text says.

And then: _come home with me._


	2. Chapter 2

Dean’s done with parties after that. He’s done with LA too, so they pack up the car and head back east.

Crowley doesn’t _say _that he hates roadside inns and skanky motels, but it’s kind of _implied _every time he does a full body shiver when Dean sends him in to book a room. Yeah, Dean’s done with booking motel rooms too. Choosing motels is a full-time job, okay, it requires _emotional labor _and Dean’s been doing that shit for thirty-five years so he can say with _unparalleled_ authority that it’s a fucking thankless job.

So Dean fully expects Crowley to give him shit over this, but Crowley just shrugs and gets over himself. Slides right into Sam’s spot without missing a beat, except he’s _nicer _than Sam ever bothered to be. He doesn’t say anything if Dean wants to spend the whole day at the arcade, and he doesn’t make any snide comments when Dean hogs the karaoke machine at the bars.

It’s _somewhat _surprising, but Crowley’s a good sport. It’s not a contest or anything, and honestly, this is a pretty low bar to clear, but if Crowley’s trying to prove that he’s _better _than Sam or something.

If he’s trying to one-up Sam and maybe worm his way into Dean’s good graces, and he _actually_ wants Dean to like him the _best_ (like Dean’s a person worth _fighting _over), but he’s decided to do this by being _nice _to Dean instead of yelling at him.

Then he’s totally winning.

Because Crowley _takes care_ of Dean. It’s not like Dean _needs_ someone to follow him around and wipe his ass, but it’s _nice_, especially since he’s been doing the caretaking since _forever_. John probably understood his need to not be _on_ all the time, but John understood it in a vague _I fucked Dean up into a 1950s housewife_ kind of way, and the way he harped on about finding Dean a family once everything was over was just.

Honestly, kind of terrible.

Like, he clearly _feminized_ Dean in his head?

And Dean’s not a girl.

But people never got the memo. _Right_ before Stanford, Sam gave him this bullshit speech about going someplace far away and actually making something of himself, and it was the kind of thing that _eighteen-year-old_ Sam found inspiring as shit, but twenty-two-year-old Dean found inspiring as _shit_, especially towards the end, when Sam swore up and down that he’d come _back_ for Dean. Provided, of course, that Dean would actually leave John.

And that’s the kind of speech you give to your high school sweethearts, okay? Not the brother who raised you and wiped your nose and tried and failed to talk you out of your stupid clown phobia.

So Dean told Sam to piss off, and Sam pissed right off into the arms of Jessica Moore, who shared Dean’s birthday and Dean’s taste in music and Dean’s sense of humor, except she died, so Sam had to go back to making _Dean _his girl.

And the worst thing is that Dean wouldn’t have minded? Like, it could have even been good, if Sam actually knew _how _to treat girls?

Yeah, Dean was _that _pathetic. Always scrambling for crumbs.

But Sam’s always _sucked _at taking care of people, and that’s on _Dean_, since Dean’s the one who spoiled the asshole rotten, so Dean didn’t get to complain, even though being treated as the girl was the fucking _worst_.

Instead, he _tried _to do right by Lisa, because he _knew _better, but Lisa was actually _strong_, and she didn’t want to be treated the way that _Dean _always wished he’d been treated, and the whole thing blew up in his face.

And maybe she had a point, because Dean’s pretty sure he played Lisa to Cas’s Dean. Or maybe it was Dean to Cas’s Sam?

It’s all kind of blurring together at this point. The many incarnations of Dean Winchester, 1950s housewife extraordinaire.

So maybe the point isn’t that Cas and Sam _feminize_ Dean. The point is that they want him to do all the _work _that comes with being a girl, but they don’t let him have any of the good parts, and maybe Sam doesn’t even know that there _are _good parts, but Cas does. Or he has a vague idea what the good parts _should _look like, because he keeps paying lip service to this façade of domesticity that he’s _really _invested in, this pipe dream where he takes care of Dean and protects Dean’s family and Dean’s so fucking grateful that he turns their lives into a Norman fucking Rockwell slideshow, and it’s not like Dean had sky-high expectations when he first learned of Cas’s delusions, but.

Dean’s sorry to say that he was really fucking disappointed when he learned that Cas didn’t _really _want to hold up his end of the bargain.

So yeah, regular ole Dean was a simpering pansy, but the new Dean actually has a _spine_. He’s _liberated_ now.

Even if Cas keeps chasing him all over the lower forty-eight.

There was this one, brief shining moment last week when Dean thought they’d lost Cas on the New Jersey turnpike, when they were rounding one of those terrible traffic circles, the really awful ones that caused Crowley to literally design a circle of Hell in their image, and he thought that _for once_ the armpit of America was going to do something nice for him, and he was even ready to revise his opinion of the state.

Even if they _still _didn’t let him pump his own gas.

But then Cas turned up in Newark, and he’s been hot on Dean’s trail ever since. Dean’s been changing motels once a day, sometimes even twice, and every night when he looks out the window, he can see Cas’s fugly Pimpmobile parked right outside his door, Cas smugly ensconced in the driver’s seat, binoculars in hand, the _creep_, and even though the fling with Crowley was supposed to be a one-time deal, Dean’s been putting on encore shows _just _to give Cas an eyeful.

He doesn’t need to see Cas’s face to know that this must be _killing _him. _Everyone _knows that Cas has _expectations_, but Dean’s so far past giving a fuck, Fucksville is a distant dot in the rearview mirror.

And it’s not like the old Dean could have fulfilled those expectations anyway. He basically promised himself to his _brother _in a church with _Crowley _as a witness, just because Sam was threatening him with _suicide_, and honestly, now that Dean stops to think about it, the whole thing just _reeks _of manipulation.

Like, that’s gotta count as emotional abuse, right? Sam was trying to _isolate _him.

It’s not anything _new_. Dean wised up to Sam’s little tricks as a _teenager_, because what kind of kid develops a clown phobia just because his brother dumped him in a pizza chain turned arcade?

A kid dead set against his brother having any semblance of a social life.

Sam would just _die _if he knew that Dean was living it up with Crowley. In the world according to Sam, Dean can’t have friends. It’s, like, the bedrock of their brotherhood. Sure, Sam can have a lover or two, and he’d _love_ to be part of a community, but Dean’s gotta be the hapless drifter brother entirely reliant on his generosity, because how else would Sam get his daily boost of ego?

Christ, the way he just _went _after Benny for having the gall to be Dean’s friend. He’d probably have gone after Cas too, if Cas’s existence didn’t already make him feel superior, because hey, here’s another monumental fuck-up who almost ended the world.

Dean’s a _demon _and he’s _still _better for the world than the company he used to keep.

“I’ve been reevaluating my life choices,” he says to Crowley in bed.

“Yeah?” Crowley says.

“Gotta say,” Dean says, “this is probably the best decision I’ve ever made.”

That gets Crowley’s attention. He turns to look at Dean, big eyes and all, and there’s something terribly _open _about the expression he’s wearing, like the next words Dean says might actually _matter _to him.

It’s this sort of thing that keeps Dean with Crowley.

“I’ve had more fun in the last few weeks than I’ve _ever _had,” Dean says, trying to find the right words to thank Crowley. Because he gets the feeling that genuine appreciation might be what Crowley’s actually looking for, and Dean _is _grateful. “The hot wings, the karaoke bars, even the parties. Which were actually kind of terrible, but also _fun _in a truly awful way. You know, my old man was a piece of work, and I never got to even _look _at the moon. Like, I had no time for that shit. But this whole howling thing is really working out for me, and it’s thanks to you, man.”

Bam. First chick-flick moment with Crowley.

Crowley looks terribly pleased for a moment, and then pensive, and then he asks, almost carefully, “So you’re happy now?”

Dean gives this question some thought. “Yeah,” he says, and maybe it’s not entirely true, but he’s not _unhappy_, so that’s gotta count for something.

“Even though your current life isn’t _that _much different from the one you led before?”

“I mean, I get to howl at the moon, don’t I?”

“So I’ve given you an outlet for your emotions,” Crowley says. “But once you get everything out of your system, what then?”

“Nothing,” Dean says. “I plan on howling for a long time to come.”

Crowley just frowns. “I think,” he says slowly, “that you have another big life choice headed your way soon.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean demands, almost belligerent, because Crowley’s picking at scabs he has no business _touching_, but this whole conversation was supposed to be about _appreciating _the motherfucker, so Dean _really _doesn’t want to fight with the only friend he’s got left in this world.

It’s a sad thought, and Dean’s honestly not all that sure if Crowley even _counts _as a friend, but hey, he takes what he can get.

“I don’t know if you’re really up for a life of demonhood,” Crowley says in this really earnest way that’s making it super hard for Dean to get mad at him.

Dean manages it anyway.

“Are you _ditching _me?”

He thinks he might even be able to work up a righteous fury, because who gave Crowley the _audacity_ to ditch Dean? Dean is the one settling here, and _this _is what he gets?

“No one’s ditching anyone,” Crowley says. “I’m just making the very _accurate _observation that you might miss your old life more than you think. I think you miss your brother more than you let on, and Squirrel, you’re not _exactly_ subtle about missing your family, and I suspect that once you get the rage and hurt out of your system, you’ll want to go back.”

It comes as no surprise to Dean that Crowley has the emotional intelligence of a gnat. “Crowley,” he says, almost pityingly, “that’s the most _stupid _thing I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth. And I knew you back when you were addicted to human blood, which, ew. Tell me, why would I _ever _want to go back?”

Crowley just looks at him, like the answer should be obvious, and it probably is, if Crowley thinks that Dean’s bottom line is flimsier than a back alley hooker’s thong.

It _isn’t_.

Humiliation burns hot under his skin, low in his belly. “You were there for _everything_,” he says, and he can _feel _his face flush, and he just hates that about himself, the way he wears the sting of betrayal like a slap in the face, handprint and all, and it’s so _dumb_, letting Crowley know that he’s hurt, but he can’t help himself because he’s _so _fucking mad. “Goddamn it Crowley, I _know _you read all of Chuck’s books, and that you _know _Sam chose a fucking _dog _over me, and after all that, you _still _think I’m gonna go crawling back to him?”

“He might come crawling back to you,” Crowley says. “He might beg you to take him back. I know you fantasize about it.”

And sure, maybe he does, but that’s human nature and Dean’s still a little human, and given all of their _history_, it’s _inevitable_.

“I’m just saying,” Crowley continues, “I wouldn’t hold it against you if you did want to go back. After Moose does an adequate amount of groveling, of course.”

“I said, I don’t want to go back,” Dean snarls.

Crowley blinks. “All right then. You won’t get any argument from me. You know I want you to stay.” He pats the bed. “Are we good? Can you come back to bed now?”

“The last thing I want to do is get back into your bed,” Dean says, furious. He’s vertical now, still half tangled in the sheets but _livid_ enough that he’s thinking about taking them all with him and leaving Crowley naked on an empty bed. “Do you even _want _me? Or do you want the old Dean? Do you have a hard-on for the martyr? What, you were too late to get yourself a piece of that sweet ass and now you’re poking around in the leftovers? Sorry to break it to you, mate, but that Dean’s gone. Deader than a doornail. Burned to a crisp. I’m _never _going to love another person like he did, and you’re just going to have to deal with that. This model you bought? Isn’t disgustingly codependent, and will _never _sell his soul to resurrect your sorry ass. But, you know, it hasn’t been thirty days, so I’m pretty sure that the store will take him back if you ask _nicely_. I have self-respect this time around, okay? If I wanted to be someone’s bitch, I’d have _stayed _with Sam. And you _know _I don’t want that.”

Crowley’s gaping at him like he didn’t anticipate this outburst, and _of course he didn’t_, Dean’s been disgustingly pliant for _weeks _now, but then his expression hardens and he says, “Christ, Winchester. Moose wasn’t kidding when he said you had more issues than the National Enquirer.” 

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean says, and he makes sure to slam the door shut behind him.

Philly’s not _exactly_ a sauna this time of the year, but it’s still pretty warm, so the sheets he stole from Crowley’s bed are more for modesty than anything else. It’s a pretty tacky look, trailing motel bedsheets behind him like a runaway bride, but then Cas kind of trips out of his car, mouth hanging open, and hey, Dean’s nothing if not an opportunist.

“Go get us a room,” he orders Cas. “Make sure it’s next door to Crowley if you really want your revenge.”

The room next to Crowley’s only has a king bed, which suits Dean just fine. He dumps the sheets onto the ground and takes a seat on top of the comforter, making sure that _nothing’s _left up to Cas’s imagination, and then he lies back, spreads himself out.

Cas stands frozen against the motel door, like he can’t believe his luck. “Dean,” he says hoarsely, “Dean, what are you—”and then he breaks off midsentence, closes his eyes and wets his lips.

It’s a strangely human gesture, an indication of weakness.

“You’ve always wanted to fuck me, haven’t you?” Dean asks. He pats the spot beside him. “Well, here’s your chance.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “what are you doing? _Why _are you doing — you need to stop this — you _can’t _go from—”

“I can’t go from zero to fucking?”

“No!”

Cas sounds incoherent, distraught, but Jimmy Novak’s big blue eyes are fixed on Dean’s body and Dean knows from years of experience what the weight of that gaze means. 

“Here’s the deal, Cas,” Dean says, _reveling _in the mess he’s made of the guy. “I’m getting fucked tonight, one way or the other. Now, you can either lend me a hand, or I can go back to Crowley. Your choice, really.”

“You’re messed up,” Cas says slowly. “I can’t— I shouldn’t—”

“Sure you can. In fact, if you make it worth my while, I might say goodbye to Crowley. Make it good enough and you’ll _never _get rid of me.”

That’s, like, Cas’s wet dream come true.

There’s no way in hell he’s going to turn this offer down.

Cas’s lips press thin, but his eyes darken and he starts moving towards Dean, stops right beside the bed, hand on his tie like he’s not quite sure he wants it gone, mouth half open like he wants to say something but can’t find the words, and it’s like he’s paralyzed, rooted to the ground by desire but held back by an unseen force.

“I don’t have all day,” Dean says.

So the tie goes first. Then the trench coat, the suit jacket, the belt, his shoes and pants. And then he’s looming over Dean, naked except for an unbuttoned dress shirt, and his hands are hovering over Dean’s skin, like he wants to map out Dean’s body but he’s afraid to touch. He’s so close that Dean can feel the heat pouring off of his skin, the brush of his shirt tails, the gust of air he exhales shakily when he lowers himself and presses his lips to Dean’s collarbone.

“Dean,” he breathes, burying his face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

It sounds like he's mourning Dean.

He grasps Dean’s shoulder, hard, his fingers turning white where his handprint was once branded, and Dean feels—

Dean feels nothing.

Cas is cold, marble-like, devoid of lust.

He looks at Cas, sees his cock hanging limp.

His breath catches, but he’s a good actor, one of the _best_, so Cas can’t tell that he’s fucked Dean up _real _bad.

“You gonna make me do all the work?” he gasps, eyes tracing the outline of Cas’s soft cock. He thinks about wrapping his lips around it, sucking until Cas is hard, doing the kind of shit he _swore _he’d never do again for _anyone _as long as he lived.

The _no _that comes exploding out of him is visceral.

Sure, Cas’s first time wasn’t _great_, seeing as it ended up with him dead, but the fact remains that Cas knew enough to get tab A into slot B so this isn’t a question of _experience_.

The problem is that _Dean _as he is isn’t good enough for Cas.

And the old Dean would have been fucking _gutted_. He’d probably have dropped to his knees like the cocksucker he was, did his best to _earn _Cas’s affections by moaning like the two-bit whore Alastair said he was, because he _needed _to be wanted.

That need was visceral too and even now it gnaws at him, begging him to do _something _to make Cas want him.

But he _can’t_, because he’s _done _working for love. He’s done more than enough over the years to earn his place in his family, put up with so much bullshit from a parade of shitty men that being loved should be the bare _minimum _at this point. And Cas. God, Cas. Cas spent _years _pining after him, spent that whole year after Stull _hating _Lisa for being the other woman, and then he spent the next few years ruining Dean’s life to make Dean pay for choosing Lisa when he wasn’t even _around_, but Dean kept taking him back, after Crowley, after Sam’s wall, after Purgatory, after the Fall.

So if Dean has to _coax _Cas into feeling something for him.

_Fuck _no.

He deserves _so _much better.

Dean shoves Cas away, _hard_, but Cas _clings _to him, grips him tight enough to leave bruises.

“I can’t,” Cas says, words muffled against the collar of his shirt. “It’s not that I don’t _want _to, but that I _can’t_. It wouldn’t be _right_. You’re a mess—”

“Because I’m a demon?”

“Because you aren’t _yourself_. The Dean I know _loves _Sam. He loves m—”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dean says tiredly. “I didn’t _love _you back then, and I sure as hell don’t love you now.”

“That’s how I know you’re _not _you,” Cas says surely, calmly, like he’s an expert on Dean fucking Winchester. “I _know _you, Dean, and. And you don’t _hurt _people. Not like this. You don’t get mad and just leave, because you don’t give up on people, because you’re a _good _man—”

“You don’t know _shit _about me. Newsflash, asshole, I’m _still _me. Everything I felt back then I still feel _now._ And guess what? I was mad at you guys back then too. Because you and Sam — man, you guys treated me like shit, and you expected me to just take it? I mean, I guess I did for the longest time, because you guys mindfucked me into thinking that I didn’t have a choice, but dying _really _put things in perspective for me, and just the fact that you’ve got a thing for the old Dean but not the _new and improved _version kinda tells me that you only like the 1950s housewife Dean. So, what? You only like me when I can’t mouth off? When I can’t fight back?”

Cas has the gall to look fucking _wounded_.

Like, sure, Dean’s not pulling any punches here, but he’s also speaking the goddamned truth, because Sam and Cas are literal pieces of shit and _someone _should hold them accountable.

“We’re done here,” Dean says, and he pushes Cas off the bed _for real _this time. Balls the trench coat, the suit jacket, the pants into a wad and just _lobs _it at the fucktard’s head. “Get out of my room before I wake everyone up.”

Cas scrambles up from the filthy carpet. Puts on his pants, and then his other layers, one by one. He looks both devastated _and _relieved, like he can’t make up his mind between the two, and Christ, Dean just _hates _this side of him. He can’t even take responsibility for his _own _choices.

“I’ll scream,” Dean warns. “If you don’t get the fuck out of here on the count of three.”

_That _gets Cas to move. The indignity of being thrown out on his ass in Jimmy Novak’s semi-naked meatsuit.

“I’ll show myself out,” he says, subdued. And then: “You _never _said you were mad at me. If I knew.”

But he _did _know.

He just didn’t think it mattered.

Cas adjusts the blinds down, turns off the AC, then pauses before he opens the door. Turns around to look at Dean in this _really _fucking tragic way, like his heart is cracking in two.

He’s kind of shit at picking a setting, because as it is, he just looks ridiculous framed against an orange motel wall.

“If you knew,” Dean says right when Cas’s got one foot out the door. “I mean, let’s be real. If you knew I was mad at you, you’d still have done the same shit _anyway_. At least have the _decency _to admit that.”

*

“You know,” Crowley says the next morning when he’s surveying the wreckage of Dean’s bed, “my mother once tried to sell me for three pigs.”

Christ.

It’s way too early in the morning to be having these depressing conversations. Like, what is Dean even supposed to say to that?

“That’s rough,” Dean offers eventually. “You were worth, what? At least five?”

“At least five,” Crowley agrees emphatically. “But you know. I had a horrible mother.”

He waits a beat.

Crowley’s so fucking _obvious_. He thinks he’s being real subtle, but he’s the _opposite_.

“Winchester,” he intones, “we can’t choose our family, okay? It sucks, but the world _sucks_, so we just gotta suck it up.”

*

Cas, who is inflexible and unyielding when Dean needs him to give way and weak and pliant when Dean needs him to be strong, keeps _following _him.

But he’s getting good at this.

He keeps a mile between them, and since a mile renders him invisible, Dean lets him be.

Out of sight, out of mind.

That’s where he wants Cas.

That’s where he wants everyone else too.

*

Dean’s in New Orleans, in this tiny mom-and-pop hole in the wall that claims to serve the best alligator po’boys in the entire state of Louisiana when Cas shows up again.

Which means that Dean’s only gone a week and a half without seeing his ugly mug.

“Do you see this sandwich?” Dean asks.

Cas is a silent, hovering presence in the barstool next to him.

Dean says, “You know why I came here to get a fried gator po’boy? It’s because I _really _wanted to remember what alligator tastes like. And because I wanted to ask Frank here how they caught the alligators.”

Frank is not the pop of the mom-and-pop duo. Frank is a bitter retiree manning the slot machines by the bathrooms and he has _no idea _how they catch the gators, but what he does know is that Kevin Tran is full of shit when it comes to hunting gators, because Jesus, boy, the reptiles might be dumb, but they’re not gonna crawl over a row of knives just because you put them on the road they came out on.

They don’t _have _to take the same road back.

Like, Dean _knows _that.

Dean _knows _that Kevin was talking out of his ass. _Kevin _told him that he was pulling shit out of his ass. His exact words were _so I’ve been reading this novel about a few gay dudes, right, and don’t ask me why I was reading about gay guys, I mean, I’m living with them right now so it’s RESEARCH okay, and one guy straight up tells his crush that the poor dude’s an alligator_.

And that didn’t make sense _at all_, and Dean wondered if the publishers were so desperate that they were taking hack jobs at this point, but he just nodded patiently and waited for Kevin to make his point.

Because Kevin _always _had a point.

And the kid didn’t disappoint him. He explained in excruciating detail that _the point wasn’t that he had sharp teeth or that he cried crocodile tears or anything like that. The point was that alligators _always _take the same road back, even if it’s, like, _carpeted _with knives or bombs or some other violent shit, because they _always _choose the same road, they never _learn_, and the guy he had the crush on was the same way._

He made this whole production of telling Dean that _Dean _was like the alligator, except he was pretty sure that alligators weren’t _that _dumb in real life.

Which made _Dean _dumber than an overgrown lizard.

“_Obviously_ alligators aren’t that stupid, or else they’d be _extinct_, which they clearly aren’t, but the thing is, I’m pretty sure that _people _can be this stupid. And if I’m Exhibit A, then you’re Exhibit B.”

Because Cas _never _learns.

He _chooses _to repeat mistakes, which is just _wild_.

Dean’s not the kind of guy that goes around getting angry with people for being dumb, because that’s the kind of judgmental shit that Sam likes to pull, even though that’s kind of a kettle and pot situation he’s got going on, but, like, Dean maintains his equanimity _only_ because that sort of thing is _none _of his business.

And Cas is _real _good at making _everything _Dean’s business.

So yeah, Dean’s angry with Cas. He’s fucking _enraged_.

“Even so,” Cas says in this gentle way that only succeeds in making Dean even angrier, which doesn’t sound like much but is actually pretty fucking impressive. “I don’t regret the bulk of my choices.”

A piece of dead alligator fall out of Dean’s po’boy. He pops it into his mouth and washes it down with some beer, and then promptly regrets it because that would have been _more _beer to pour down the idiot’s head.

“Cas,” he asks, “I’m like _two _sentences away from pulling a classic bitch move. So I need you to _not _say anything dumb for the rest of that night. Can you do that for me?”

“I’ll do my best,” Cas says gamely. “But you’ve been very volatile. I never _intend _to make you angry, but it seems like that’s all I’ve managed to do these past few weeks.”

Weeks? Try _years._

But Cas _knows _this and he’s _still _here, so.

If Dean gets mad, that’s on _him_, right?

“Why are you still here?” Dean asks. “I mean, I can’t be great company when I’m laying into you every five seconds, and it’s not like you’ve been salivating for my sweet ass.”

“Well, some of us have strange tastes,” Cas says, smiling a little. “But, uh, the truth is, I don’t know when I’ll get to enjoy your company again.”

Dean can’t believe that they’re having the _same _conversation _exactly _one year later.

“Is this where you tell me that you’re going back to Heaven and you’re going to shut the gates and your brothers are going to sentence you to death for causing, like, sixty percent of their misfortune?”

Frank, who’s clearly more invested in their conversation than his losing streak at the Wheel of Fortune, gawps at them.

“Go back to your slot machine, Frank,” Dean yells back. “I think you’re a few turns away from the jackpot.”

“He’s forty-four presses of the button away,” Cas mutters under his breath.

“That’s not _too _bad,” Dean says. “Better than your odds, I’d say.”

“I’m not going back to Heaven,” Cas says. “I came to tell you that my grace is fading fast, and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep this up.”

He makes this vague hand gesture that’s probably meant to encompass _follow you around like a crazy stalker _and _hold illicit meet-ups in bars_, and now that he mentions it, yeah, Dean can kind of see that his hand is shaking.

Cas looks _terrible_, objectively speaking, he’s gross and sweaty and his eyes are shot through with red, and maybe he expects Dean to feel something for him, like, maybe this is some kind of pity play, because if Dean looked like _that _he’d never show himself in public, but _honestly_.

That’s just Cas and his love affair with _expectations _that can never be fulfilled.

“I mean,” Dean says, “I never really _asked _you to keep this up? Pretty sure I always asked for the opposite.”

Cas looks _crushed_, and Dean’s just mean enough to feel the _thrill_ of vindication zip right through him.

“Why are you _like _this?” Cas asks, wetly. “Are you really mad enough that you’d prefer _Crowley_? You’d choose a demon who’s killed your friends and countless other innocents over your family?”

“I mean,” Dean says, “it’s not like you’re not guilty of the same things. Except on a far grander scale.”

Well.

That’s not _strictly _true, since technically Bobby was killed by the Leviathan.

But Dean _lives _for that stricken look on Cas’s face, so.

“Look,” he says, “do you remember that conversation you had with me? Right after I properly ended things with Lisa, but not before your henchmen put a hole in her stomach?”

“That was Crowley,” Cas grits out, but really.

Cas didn’t want to heal her, so he was _totally _complicit.

“Anyway, she came to me the next morning. Right before I took off to meet up with Sam. And _you’d _come to me that morning too.”

“Because you prayed to me. I was answering your call.”

“Right, but in a completely unhelpful way. I was worried about Sam’s seizures and the only thing you had to say was that it was _all _my fault for wanting my brother’s soul out of hell.”

Lisa heard _everything _that day and she was way smarter than Cas gave her credit for, because she figured out his deal as soon as she clapped eyes on him, and she just _knew _that he’d be the death of Sam.

“So she comes up to me,” Dean says, “and she asks me why I was letting some Constantine wannabe talk to me that way. And I told her _everything_. Mostly about how you, an angel of the Lord, wouldn’t let me retrieve my brother’s soul for hell, even though Sam was there _undeservedly_. It didn’t make sense, because you kept saying that I should be happy with his body, because that _was _Sam, and I didn’t understand how you could say such a thing when you _knew _the real Sam was doing cage matches with Lucifer. The soul’s the only part of us that endures after death, right? When I was in Hell, you’d say that it was the _real _Dean getting fucked in the ass by Alastair. You wouldn’t say that the real Dean was rotting six feet underground. So it was real obvious that you didn’t care _at all_ about Sam, you just wanted something that could placate me. Like I was the wife who kept nagging you about buying a _luxury handbag_ or something just as stupid and meaningless, so you got me a knockoff version to shut me up. Like I was too dumb to know any better.”

Cas doesn’t say anything to defend himself.

He can’t.

Everything Dean’s said so far is _true_.

“You’re so full of shit, you know,” Dean says. “That’s what Lisa said too. That you were bullshit. That if I could love Ben like my own son, then you should at least love Sam as your own brother if you wanted to start something with me. Although, considering what you did to Balthazar, I guess it’s a good thing that you don’t.”

Cas flinches. 

Of course he does.

He’s too weak to face up to all the shit he’s pulled.

“I was awful to Sam,” Cas admits, voice low. “And I know I haven’t made up for what I’ve done to him. I’m not sure I ever can. But Dean, you’re not being _fair_. I _did_ do the things you’re accusing me of, but I didn’t do them for the reasons you think, and things didn’t happen in the order you’re telling them, and you _know _this.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is holding you accountable being _unfair_? Do you really have that little self-respect?”

“What does _any_ of this have to do with self-respect?”

“People with self-respect fuck up and then own their mistakes. They don’t sit around bemoaning the _unfairness_ of it all, because they know the price of their choices. They take their own measure and they don’t write checks that they can’t cash, or if they do, then they know that the repo man’s gonna come knocking and they’re prepared for that. But you. You’re not prepared for _anything_. You make all these mistakes and you expect me to pretend that they didn’t happen, or you pretend that you’ve gone crazy so that I can’t even be _angry_, and then you run away, so I _never _get to be properly mad. And then you tell me that you love me, that you want me to be happy, that you want to be my _family_, but you can’t bring yourself to even _like_ the guy I spent my _whole _life raising. I mean, I know Sam sucks, but he’s still my _only _family. And you want him _dead_—”

“Is this _really_ what you think of me?” Cas asks, voice trembling with rage.

He’s probably _dying _to take a swing at Dean. His fists are clenched at his sides and he’s wearing the same expression he had in the back alley, right before he beat Dean into a bloody pulp, and Dean’s not gonna lie.

He probably _does _have a beatdown headed his way.

He probably even _deserves _it.

But.

It’s not like Cas has the _energy _right now, and Dean’s not gonna wait around for him to feel better.

Dean finishes off his po’boy and fishes a twenty from his wallet. “Honestly?” he says, raising a hand to flag down the waiter. “I don’t _really _think about you. But if you ask Dean, circa 2013?”

Dean’s, like, two hundred percent sure that the old Dean _hated _Cas’s guts.

But the old Dean would have _never_ said any of that shit out loud, because when it came down to it, he was one of Kevin Tran’s mythological alligators.

Dead of Darwinism, really, if you believed in calling a spade a spade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone screams at me, please keep in mind that yes, I do think Dean is being terribly unfair. But this _is_ the second chapter of what could be alternatively titled _ What It Means to be a Demon_, so.
> 
> The part on hunting alligators is from 明恋 by 谦少, and it's been years since I read it, so I'm not exactly clear on the particulars. The part on self-respect is paraphrased from Joan Didion's essay, _On Self-Respect_.

**Author's Note:**

> Dean's a demon, so you didn't expect him to be nice, did you?
> 
> The title's from Lana del Rey's _Off to the Races_.


End file.
